He whittled me down 

word by word to a concept 

small enough for him to understand, 

but leaving just enough space to hold a rage 

only to be described by words 

I am not yet allowed to know. 

The glitter I painted 

onto my eyelids earlier that evening

perform obedience so well, 

I make a mental note to give them 

a standing ovation as soon as I am out of sight. 

The sparkle catches his eye and

distracts from my change in posture, not that he would notice anyway. 

He cut me down piece by piece. 

Bite-sized. 

More palatable to his perception and 

digestible to his dignity. 

Keeping me tucked in the back of his cupboard,

drowning in preservatives.

Collecting more dust by the day. 

Sometimes I can see him peaking between the cans of Campbell’s Soup 

just to be sure I’m still there, waiting.

Written by Clare Flanigan

Edited by Julia Brummell and Elisabeth Kay

Graphic by